Nights in the Larder
by Ventisquear
Summary: For the ever hungry Wardens, the larder is a sacred place. But now, a mysterious burglar is on rampage! Who dared to mess with Wardens' food?


This story was my Secret Santa story for MMC. :)

Thanks to **ShebasDawn** for her help with it! :D ShebasDawn is my new beta, as well as co-author of the new series, A Crow, a Rat and a Sparrow. You will find link in my profile. :)

* * *

**Nights in the Larder**

Faren stopped in the door, taking in everything in the room: the wooden shelves lining the walls, full of tomes bound in dark leather with golden inscriptions; the damask carpet and curtains, the coffee table with fluffy armchairs around it, and, the best part of all, the beautifully carved chair and desk, handmade to fit his measurements. In one word, it could be described as comfortable and neat. Varel would comment that those were _two_ words but Varel wasn't here and Varel wasn't the Warden Commander. No, that would be him - a duster, not worthy even to be a servant.

And look at him now - Alistair in his royal palace wasn't better off. Even paperwork was satisfying in this room, adding more importance to his person. Not that he would ever admit _that_ aloud, not even to his dear wife. But it had a special thrill to it, to sit in that high-backed chair, going through documents with royal seals regarding extremely important matters he didn't know existed half a year ago. When he got hungry, there was always a tray on the coffee table with a jug of hot tea, a tiny funny jug of milk, and a plate of pastry with plum marmalade filling and dusted with powdered sugar -

Wait.

There was no tray on his coffee table today.

Sure, it was just a trifling… but it was a crack in his perfect little haven. Killing darkspawn was hardly clean business, and he and his men often had to go without basic things; at least in his office, he wanted his comfort. Was that too much to ask?

Annoyed, he reached his hand to ring for Varel, when there was a knock on the door and in came the Senechal, breathless, ruffled and… puzzled? Yes, that was the word. Puzzled.

"Hi there. Something wrong?"

"Good morning, Warden Commander. Sadly, I must inform you that we indeed have a problem… and a rather peculiar one, at that. It seems there is a thief among the residents of the Keep-"

"What the fuck? Who'd dare to steal in _my_ keep? What did they take? How big is the loss?"

Varel coughed. "The loss… is not big, itself. The thief only used the red onions and redcurrant jam, but the damage… the thief broke in during the night, you see and..."

"Jam?" Faren stared at the old man. If this was some kind of a joke…

"You'd better come see for yourself, Commander," the Senechal said after a moment of hesitation.

The larder was a sacred place for eternally hungry Wardens. The cooks were revered more than Andraste, Ancestors, Creators and any other beings that, while they certainly had some merit, couldn't fill their stomachs. And it took a lot of gold to fill them, especially now that he had recruited more people. All of Dust Town could live for three days on what his Wardens ate for dinner. It was no wonder, then, that the larder was always in order and guarded almost as well as the treasury.

B-but this - this was - who? - why?! Faren's knees buckled at the sight of the demolition; he had to lean on the door frame.

The floor was covered in a thick crust of flour, sugar, eggs and an abundance of spilled milk - damn, just to bake it. Walls were smeared with squashed fruit, and everything was sprinkled in abundance with lentils and peas and corn, all mixed up in a colourful mess.

"You said they only took jam," he said weakly.

"The thief only consumed red onions and redcurrant jam," Varel agreed, pointing to the half-empty jar and a small pile of peels. "But, he - or she - forgot to close the window behind themselves. The rest was done by stray cats."

"A horde of cats?" He still couldn't believe it. How could cats cause so much damage? What did they do, play a game of 'knock it off the shelf'?

"The kitchen boy says there were eight of them, when he came this morning, and they apparently got scared and jumped around quite a lot."

Faren decided he didn't care to hear the details. "Get some men to bring food from the city," he ordered. "And whoever did this sacrilege, catch them, shut them in the deepest cell and throw away the key."

All the Wardens in the Keep helped, and by the evening, the larder was once again spanking clean, although empty. They set the traps and doubled the guards, but the thief didn't return that night. Or the next. Alistair sponsored fifty percent of the costs for renewing their stock, and Varel made a deal with local farmers to get a nice discount, so in the end it wasn't so bad.

But just as the whole thing was slowly becoming funny gossip, the thief struck again. This time, however, the window was firmly closed. The only things that were eaten were red onions and redcurrant jam, and two pints of apple juice. The thief finished the jar they started on before, and neatly swept the onion peels into the empty glass.

When the whole thing happened for the third time, he told off the guards for being incompetent human nughumpers. They didn't take it seriously, because the damage was so small. Well, it was true and he didn't intend to shut the thief in prison and throw away the key anymore, but he couldn't just let it be either. It was a bad example all around.

Without saying a word to anyone - the fewer people knew it, the smaller the chance that the thief would overhear it somehow - he put on his old Black Fox mantle, noticing it had shrunk somewhat around the waist, stuck his daggers behind his belt, kissed his sleeping wife's brow and sneaked out of the room.

The soft autumn rain drizzled on his face, turning his venerable beard into a wet crape mess, but at least it kept him awake. It had been some time since he had been on night watch in the rain… since the Blight, in fact… the last time was during their trip to Ostagar with Alistair, Wynne and Zevran. Ah, good old times…

A barely audible creak from above brought him back from his memories. There was a darker shadow under the window; if he hadn't been a duster, he wouldn't have noticed anything. No wonder the guards were unable to catch the thief - whoever it was, they were clearly a pro.

Tiptoeing, he followed the culprit, determined to catch them at the deed. He climbed in the window - and got stuck. He was too thick around the waist, dammit.

He heard an urgent whisper: "Faren?" The voice sounded a bit familiar, but he was too preoccupied to muse about it.

"Wait, I'll try to get you out." Two hands grabbed his arms and pulled, and pulled-

He popped out of the window and rolled down onto the floor, knocking a few jars from the shelves in the process. When he finally stopped and swept the pickles from his hair, he turned to triumphantly declare his victory and the thief's arrest, but… He found himself unable to speak.

"What the dust? Faren, have you completely lost your mind?"

"But-" Had he lost his mind?

"What if I wasn't here to help? A nice sight you'd be tomorrow, the Warden Commander's fat butt sticking out of the larder window."

"But-" He wouldn't be even here if not for her!

"Starting tomorrow, you're going on a diet. No more pastries until you fit through that window!"

"But I just saw you sleeping! I kissed you!" He finally found his voice again.

Even in the flickering light of the lamp, there was no doubt about it - the dreaded thief who had demolished the larder, who he had wanted to imprison for all eternity, who had given him sleepless nights for over a week - was his own wife and the Warden Second, more generally known as Sigrun Brosca.

"I think that was what woke me up," she confirmed. "And once awake, the craving was so strong I couldn't resist… if I didn't have some, I'd die before morning."

"But why didn't you say anything? You don't have to steal anymore, we're rich now." He shook his head. Women and their logic!

"Well… the first time, I didn't want to wake up people just to open the larder for me… then after all the uproar, I couldn't just come out and say, 'sorry guys, it's all because of my pregnancy cravings', could I?"

Faren's jaw dropped. "Pre-pre-pre…?"

"I'm not hundred percent sure," she said. "So I didn't want to mention anything until Anders came back from the mission and confirmed it. But, it looks you'll be a daddy, yes… Faren, are you alright?"

By the time little Valtor was born, red onion and redcurrant relish had become a famous delicacy in Fereldan cuisine.


End file.
